


Lock and Key

by saltwaterheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: absent!derek, i am just so interested in derek giving stiles that key, really just Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:11:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltwaterheart/pseuds/saltwaterheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He did have the key, though.<br/>The key.<br/>The key to the loft.<br/>Derek’s loft. Derek’s key to the loft.<br/>The key to Derek’s loft that Derek made sure to give to him, the one he pressed into his hand with a dull hush when he opened his mouth to protest, to ask why of all people he gave the key to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lock and Key

Derek hasn’t answered Stiles’ calls, and it’s starting to get a little frustrating.

The truth was that it was a _little_ frustrating after the first text went unanswered; Stiles typed a quick message three days after Derek left, just a quick “everything alright?,” super casual, and never got a response. Which, honestly, he thought was a little rude.  

He did have the key, though. _The_ key _._ The key to the loft. Derek’s loft. Derek’s key to the loft. The key to Derek’s loft that Derek made sure to give to him, the one he pressed into his hands with a dull hush when he opened his mouth to protest, to ask why of all people he gave the key to _him_. That key.

Stiles pressed it into his own palm about a hundred times over the last month, hard enough to pinch at the skin and leave a glaring red outline when the nightmares darkened him. He had read somewhere that you can’t feel pain in dreams, and the damn thing wound up sitting next to his nightstand because one day Derek was definitely going to ask him for the key back, and Stiles did _not_ want to be the guy who lost Derek Hale’s spare key—he had _trusted_ him after all. So it was sitting there when he screamed himself awake for the first time, and it was there when he tried sitting in bed for as many days as he could stay awake, hands shaking from all the coffee he ingested for the sake of scouring the internet for answers. Once the letters started slipping and shifting, re-organizing themselves on the screen and on the pages, though, Stiles found himself on the edge of another panic attack.

One of the first few nights his eyes leapt open and he fumbled out of his sheets and sat teetering on the edge of his bed, leaned over, rested his head on his knees and breathed, sobbed, for at least an hour before sitting up again. Intuitively, he grabbed it, ran a thumb over the pattern of bumps and ridges, and pushed it into him just like Derek had. But it wasn’t the same—didn’t come with that expression, that glance toward Scott that said _don’t tell him I gave this to you_. All it really left him with was that old metallic smell on his hands and a knotted stomach at the thought that maybe he should sleep with it in his hand, like a talisman or a token, something to ground him.

Stiles didn’t know when Derek was even going to come by and _ask_ for the damn thing back.

He was someone who needed to know—that is, he needed to know _everything that could possibly be known about a thing_.  Take this little trip Derek and Cora were taking, for example. It wasn’t just because it was _Derek_ , no way, it was because it was a _factoid_ , more than that, it was an _event_ and even though Derek’s stupid beardy face had gotten them into so much trouble last semester, well, somehow he had grown on him. At the very least, he had to come back so Stiles could ask him _why_ he gave the key to him to begin with, and not Isaac, who was homeless enough to be living with Scott, or to Scott himself. He had to come back. 

So, yeah. Sure. He cared a little.

He had cared a _little_ when Derek didn’t answer him the first time. Three weeks later and there’s still nothing, and suddenly it’s the last weekend before the new semester starts and Stiles is spending it alone, in the loft, with the key. The key to the loft. Derek Hale’s key to Derek Hale’s loft.

His phone buzzes and he knows it’s not Derek, he gave up the gasping and fumbling around for his phone desperately after the second week flew by with no response. It was Scott, asking why he was running late for their weekly pizza night, and Stiles thumbs back a quick “busy, few hrs,” wondering if the letters on his keyboard would start shifting soon too.

It’s all very anticlimactic, to say the least. Stiles heaves the heavy door open, then shut, keeps the key in his hand as he does a slow walk-through. He drifts his hands over the arm of the couch, the broad table in the back, the papers left behind. The mess. He’s not _snooping_ , per se. He’s just checking in, making sure no one broke in or stole anything, stirring some dust. That was what he was telling himself, at least.

Stiles was convinced that the loft held nothing of value anyway— that is, until he sees something, squints at one side of the table, reaches under to pull at a concealed handle.

A drawer. 

Okay, _now_ Stiles is snooping. But he couldn’t have left anything behind that was important. _Unless_ , he thought, _he plans on coming back soon_.

When asked, Scott said he had no idea if Derek was going to come back at all, and for some reason the thought nearly gorged him. They _needed_ Derek whether they liked it or not, whether Derek thought so or not, but Stiles never expressed that opinion because he didn’t want to be the one looking for more problems. Derek was an adult and could come and go as he pleased.

He had bigger problems, like sleep paralysis and breathing and reading, apparently.

Stiles had read somewhere that you could tell a lot about a person just by looking at their drawers, cabinets, closets, like how organized they were or what was important to them (the important things were, without a doubt, always in the top drawer of a desk, accessible). He wasn’t sure if he bought it, but part of him must have because his hands are in the drawer, flexing and gaping around for something. If Derek was coming back, he must have left something that mattered—

Stiles pulled out a tiny, clasped envelope. In a neat, tight cursive, one word was written on the front:

  **TSELSI**

He blinked, hands beginning to rattle, if not out of stress than just from frustration. What the heck was wrong with him? Couldn’t he just _do this one thing_? It looked familiar enough but he just couldn’t piece it together. 

**ILESST**

Stiles stuck a finger inside. It was empty, but the outline of an object had etched itself into the paper, like whatever was in there was once a _little_ too thick for the envelope. He tried again, flipped it over, stared until the letters settled: 

**STILSE**

It took him forty five minutes to type another message to Scott, “not tnght, tired. tmrrw?” and press the SEDN button.

It took him sixty minutes of running his fingers over the etched mark, over the letters, to realize what Derek left behind. 

It took him seventy-five minutes to start breathing properly again and slip the key inside with the satisfaction of having solved even the tiniest of riddles.

It took him twenty-four hours to leave.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'VE NEVER WRITTEN STILES IN MY LIFE but I love him like a lot so I figured I should try.
> 
> Thanks, y'all!


End file.
